for me. When I wrote you that little note I really did not know what
would become of me. It was only at first that I was safe. While you and
perhaps others were looking everywhere for me, I sat up in the attic of
an old friend not far from that shop--the only friend I had, an
asthmatic sempstress who used often to buy cough-lozenges from me, and
got fond of me because I would put in a stitch for her now and then.
The poor thing when at her worst was unable for weeks together to earn
anything. It was at her door that I knocked in the night, and actually
I remained a couple of months hidden there, for no one concerned
himself about her, and I used to help her with her sewing, and to cook
our frugal meals; but at last I could no longer endure life in such a
cage. I had saved a little money, and meant to cross over into France,
where no one would have known me. But I was stopped on the way, there
was something wrong in my passport, and so I was of course transported
back like a vagrant; and here in Berlin--but we will say nothing about
it. I already feel that nausea coming back, and here is our supper, and
I must not let that be spoiled."
He poured out for her a glass of the wine the waiter had brought, and
pledged her. "Thou and I," he whispered gently.
"No, thou alone," she replied, and sipped at the glass.
"Is the Rhine wine too strong for thee?" asked he. "Shall I order
Champagne?"
She shook her head vehemently. "I could not touch a drop of it. I drank
it too early, and in too bad company. But you must eat with me if I am
to enjoy my supper."
He put something on his plate, though he could not get a morsel down,
and kept watching her while she did full justice to their simple meal.
Her hair was cut as short as ever, her dress was quite as plain, her
form so full and so supple that each movement she made was enchanting
to contemplate. Every now and then she apologized for her appetite.
"It is only," she said, "because I am for once happy, and everything is
so good, and we are so delightfully alone--you and I. There"--and she
put a bit of game from her plate on to his--"you must positively eat
that, or I shall believe you have a horror of eating from the same dish
even as I. If things had been different, and we could really have
travelled off together through the world--that would have been
beautiful! But it cannot be, and some day you will be happy with some
one else, and she with you; lots are very unequally divided, and one
must put up with one's own till it gets too bad. But do pour me out
some wine--I drank that last glass off unconsciously. Thanks--and
now--to thy mother's health! And that shall be the last."
She emptied the glass, and as she put it down again, he noticed that
she shuddered as if some ice-cold hand had suddenly grasped hold of
her.
"Let us go," she said.
He paid the bill and again offered her his arm. When they got out they
found that the large soft flakes had changed into a driving snow-storm,
that met them full in the face.
"Where shall we go now?" asked he.
"It is all the same to me. I have no longer any home. I thought
indeed--but it is quite too boisterous and wretched to take leave of
each other in the open air. Are we far from your lodgings?"
"I am in the old quarters still. Over the bridge, and then only a
hundred yards. Come."
"That is--" said she, holding him back as if considering. "What will
the people you lodge with think if you suddenly bring a girl back with
you?"
"Have you not your veil on!"
"I? I do not care about myself. To-morrow I shall be--who knows how far
away, where I can defy all comments. But it might get told to your
mother, and give you trouble hereafter."
"Have no fear," he said, pressing the hand that rested on his arm. "My
room has a private entrance, and the people of the house burn no light
on the stairs. We shall not meet any one."
With rapidly beating heart, he led her along the now deserted streets,
and often they were obliged to stand still and lean against each other,
while the icy blast swept by. Once when he turned his back to the storm
and drew her closer to his breast, he bent down and hurriedly kissed
her through her veil. She made no resistance--only said, "I think the
worst is now over, we may go on." After that they did not speak another
word till they reached the house.
* * * * *
The steep staircase was--as he had said it would be--quite dark, and as
they went up it, on tip-toe, he first, holding her hand so that she
might not miss a step, no one came across them. Only they heard
children's voices through the door, and saw a light shine through the
key-hole of the room in the upper story, telling of a Christmas tree
there.
He carefully closed his door, and let her precede him into the small
dark room, which was only lit by the glow in the stove, and the
reflection of the snow. He then bolted both doors. "The kitchen is next
to us," he said, "but there is no one there now. We need not talk in a
whisper. But the landlady may just come back once to enquire whether I
want anything."
She answered nothing; she had placed herself on a chair in the window,
and was looking out at the whirls of snow.
When he had lit his small student's lamp with its green shade he
noticed a box on the table. "Look," said he, "that is my Christmas box
from home, we can put that in a corner for the present. Will you not
take off some of your wraps, and seat yourself here on the sofa? You
must be too warm in your furs."
"I shall soon be going," said she. "But thou art right, the stove does
burn well." And she began to draw off her polonaise, and put away her
fur cap and gloves--he helping her.
"But now shall we not begin to unpack?" said she, shaking back her
hair. "I should much like to know what is in the box."
"I am in no hurry," he laughingly replied. "I have just been unpacking
something far more precious to me."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," returned she, suddenly assuming
a colder tone (she had been saying _thou_). "You do not deserve that
people should be planning how to give you pleasure. I--if a mother had
sent _me_ such a Christmas box from a distance--give it me--I will undo
the string."
She hastily began cutting open the cover with a little knife of hers,
and he gazed in carefully suppressed emotion at every movement of her
exquisite hands.
"Lottka," said he; "if you and I were both together in America, and
this box had come over the sea--"
She shook her head. "No box would have come then."
"And why not, Lottka? If my mother knew thee as I know thee, dost thou
suppose she would hold thee guilty for circumstances over which thou
art powerless. Naturally she has her prejudices--like all good mothers.
But I know that she loves me more than any of her prejudices."
The girl left off her unpacking, and with her little knife cut all
sorts of patterns on the lid of the box.
"Do you call that a prejudice?" said she, without looking at him.
"Could you eat an apple that you had found lying in the dirt of the
streets? You might wash it ten times over, the repugnance would be all
the same. And who knows what foot might have trodden on it, who knows
that some slime might not have penetrated the rind, even though it
should still be sound at the core? No, no, no! It is so once for all,
bad enough that so it should be--but it must not be made even worse."
He wound his arm about her, but rather like a brother than one
passionately in love. "Lottka," he said, "it is impossible that this
can go on. You cannot waste your life in unavailing regrets." He
stopped short--he could not find words that expressed his meaning
without fearing to pain her.
"In regrets," she repeated, looking at him firmly and sorrowfully. "Oh
no! Who is thinking of it? I have already told you that you may be
quite easy about my future. I am provided for. I am not so forsaken as
I appear, provided my courage does not desert me--my courage and my
disgust. And why must every one be married? If I chose I might be so,
and very well too. All possible pains have been taken to make me fall
in love, and I have had a choice of very desirable wooers, rich, young,
and handsome, and some were really willing regularly to marry me in a
regular church, with a regular clergyman in gown and bands. There was
only one hitch."
"What was that?" he eagerly asked.
"It is unnecessary to mention it. But no--I will tell it to you
straight out, that you may never judge me wrongly. Do you know what has
given me a horror of all men except perhaps yourself! I will whisper it
in your ear. It is because I did not know whether the proposed
bridegroom might not have stood too high in the mother's favour before
he concerned himself about the daughter."
She turned away and went hastily to the window.
After a time she again felt his arm around her. "What you must have had
to endure, dear heart!" he faintly whispered.
She nodded slowly and significantly. "More than you would suppose so
young a creature could have survived. About seven years ago, when I
first understood it all, I still thought I could change my lot. I would
not remain another day in the house. I went out to service. I cut off
all my beautiful long hair to prevent any one admiring me, and the
ugliest clothes were good enough for me so only they would restore my
respectability. How little it has availed me thou knowest. Later, when
I was taken up as a vagrant, I was brought back to the house, to _her_
who naturally had a legal right over me. I had to bear it. I was
powerless against the law. But I at once declared that I would destroy
myself if I were not left in peace. And so I have sat nearly a year in
my own room, and as soon as any one came near it I bolted the door. But
still as I was obliged sometimes to breathe the air, people saw me, and
she herself--though I never would speak a word to her--pretended that
she loved me very much, and only yesterday--it was to be a Christmas
treat--she sent me in a letter; guess from whom?"
"How can I guess?"
"You are right. No mortal ever could suppose it. But you remember the
creature with whom you quarrelled on my behalf?"
"Lottka!" he cried beside himself. "Is it possible--"
She nodded. "It was a very affectionate letter, the most beautiful
things were promised me in it--the paper smelt of Patchouli: since then
I have had that nausea, that loathing which only passed off when you
and I met again. But I have but to think of it, and--fie!--there it
comes again!"
She wiped her lips, and the same strange shudder passed over her. He
seized her hands--they were stiff and damp.
Suddenly she shook her head as if to get rid of some importunate
thought. "But we were going to unpack," said she. "Pretty subjects
these for Christmas Eve! Come to our box--_ours_ I say. You have
bewitched me with your dream about America."
"We will make it come true," he impetuously cried. "I shall remind you
on some future day of our first Christmas Eve, and then you will be
obliged to confess that I have more courage, and am a better prophet
than you."
She made no reply, but cut the last string and opened the box. All
sorts of small presents came to view, a pair of woollen gloves that his
eldest sister had knitted for him, a watch-chain woven of the fair hair
of the younger, with a pretty little gold key hanging to it, home-made
gingerbread, and finally a large sealed bottle.
"Have you vineyards?" asked she playfully.
He laughed in spite of all his sadness. "It is elder wine, and the
grapes grow in our little garden. As a child I thought it the best of
all things, and ever since my good mother believes she cannot please me
better than by sending me on every Christmas Eve, and every birthday, a
sample at least of her last year's making."
"I hope it tastes better to you than the most costly Rhine wine," said
she earnestly, "or you would not deserve it. Look--there are letters."
"Will you look them over? I am too much distracted. I should not know
what they were about if I read them."
She had seated herself on the sofa, and taken the letters on her knee;
one after the other she read them with most devout attention, as though
their contents were wonderful and sublime, yet they were only made up
of sisters' chat; little jests, apologies for the insignificance of
their offerings; and in the lines written by the mother, there was
traceable, together with her pride in having so good a son, her sorrow
at being unable to embrace him at such a time, and her anxious fear
that it was not so much work that kept him away, but rather the
melancholy unsocial mood which even made his letters short.
"Are you still reading them?" he at length asked. "They are simple
people, and when they write, the best that is in them does not always
get put on paper. Good God! thou art weeping, Lottka!"
She laid the letters on the box, rose hurriedly, and pressed back the
tears that still welled from between her long eye-lashes. "I will go
now," she faintly said. "I shall be better out of doors."
"Go? now? and where? The storm would blow you down. Remain here for
to-night, and if you like--the kitchen is close by--two chairs will do
for me--and besides I have not a thought of sleeping."
She shook her head, and looked down. Then she suddenly raised her eyes,
and looked full at his with an expression that made his heart beat
wildly.
"Not so," she said. "But it is true that the storm without would blow
me down, and where too could I go? Is this not Christmas Eve, and the
last that we shall ever spend together. And I must give thee something,
my presents to the children gave me no real pleasure, and why should I
not on this day at least think of _myself_ as well? Am I not right,
Sebastian?"
She had never before called him by his name.
"Thou wilt give me something?" enquired he, amazed and uncertain.
"The only thing I still possess--myself," she gasped, and wound her
arms about his neck.
* * * * *
When he woke in the dark on the morrow, and half raised himself from
bed, still uncertain whether it had been real or only the most wondrous
of dreams, the chamber was empty, not a trace remained of the last
night's visitor. He felt all round his little sitting-room, called her
gently by name, thinking she had perhaps stolen into the kitchen just
for a freak, and would soon return. But all was silent. The intense
cold overcame him, and with teeth chattering he slipped back into bed,
and there, propped by pillows, tried to collect his thoughts.
Before long a horrible fear sprung up within him. With burning brow,
despite the icy air, he hastily drew on his clothes, and kindled a
light. The Christmas gifts of his family were still on the table, and
he suddenly discovered a sheet written over in pencil pushed between
the letters from his mother and sisters. The characters were uncertain
and tremulous, as though written in the dark. The words ran as
follows:--"Farewell, my beloved friend, my _only_ friend! It grieves me
much that I must grieve you so, must leave you so! But there is no
other way. You would never let me go there where I needs must go,
unless both are to be made unhappy. I thank thee for thy true love. But
all the sweetness in thy soul can never wash away the bitterness from
mine. Sleep well--farewell! I kiss thee once more in sleep. I know not
whether thou wilt be able to read this. Do not grieve; believe that all
is well with me now. Thy own loving one even in death."
The maid who was in the habit of coming about this time to light the
kitchen-fire, heard a hollow cry in the next room, and opened the door
in her terror. She there saw the young student lying on the sofa as
though prostrated by some heavy blow. When she called him by name, he
only shook his head as if to say she need not concern herself about
him, and then stooped to pick up the paper that had fallen out of his
hand.
"What o'clock?" he enquired.
"It has just struck six."
"Give me my cloak and stick. I will--"
He tottered to the door.
"You are going out bare-headed in all this cold? All the shops are
closed, there is not a creature in the streets: you know this is a
holiday?"
"A holiday," he said, repeating the syllables one by one as though
trying to make out their meaning. "Give me--"
"Your cap? Here it is. Will you not first of all have a cup of coffee?
The water will soon boil."
He made no further reply, but went out with heavy steps, and stumbled
down the dark staircase. The snow crunched under his feet, and thick
icicles hung in his beard. Far and near there was not a living creature
to be seen in the dim streets; the sentinels in the sentry-boxes looked
like stiff snow men. As he passed the bridge he saw that the river had
frozen over during the night. He followed its course a long way, his
eyes riveted on the ice as though looking for something there. Then he
plunged into the neighbouring streets, quite aimlessly, like one
walking in his sleep. For he could not expect to find what he was
searching for by any pondering or thinking of his own. But the fever of
an immeasurable agony drove him restlessly on, until he was utterly
exhausted.
He might have been wandering a couple of hours or more, for the streets
were beginning to look alive, when he reached the Potsdam Gate. He
there saw a cab stopping in front of the small toll-house, coming as it
seemed from the park. The toll-keeper came out in his furs, and as he
reached out his snuff-box to a policeman who sat by the driver, asked
laughingly--
"Anything that pays duty?" pointing to the closed cab windows.
"Not anything that pays duty here," was the reply. "I must give up my
contraband to the proper authorities. She has smuggled herself--not
into, but out of the world, but she is a rare piece of goods all the
same. I was making my first round this morning yonder there by
Louise-island, when I saw a well-dressed lady sitting on a bench, her
head drooping as though she were asleep. 'My pretty child,' said I,
'look out some warmer place than this to sleep in, in such bitter cold
as this.' But there was no waking her. Her hand still held a small
bottle--it smelt like laurel leaves. She must have drunk it off, and
then _tout doucement_ have fallen to sleep! Good morning. I must make
haste to deliver her up!"
The driver cracked his whip. At that very moment they again heard the
toll-keeper's voice.
"Stop!" (he called out). "You can take another passenger. A gentleman
looked into the cab window--and bang!--there he lies in the snow. Do
get down, comrade, he is quite a young man; he must have weak nerves
indeed to be knocked down in a second at the sight of a dead woman! How
if you put him in beside her? They seem much of a muchness."
"No," returned the policeman, "that is contrary to regulations. Dead
and living are not to be shut in together. Wait, we will carry him into
the toll-house. If you rub his head with snow, and give him something
strong to smell at, he'll come round in five minutes. I am up to these
cases."
They bore the unconscious figure into the house: then the cab set out
on its way again. But the policeman's prognostics were not fulfilled.
Sebastian's consciousness did not return for five weeks instead of five
minutes. It was only when the last snow had melted away that the
miserable man began to creep about a little with the aid of his stick.
Then he went off to his parents, who never knew what a strange fate had
desolated his youth, and cast a shadow over his manhood, that was never
entirely dispelled. When he died at the age of five-and-thirty he left
behind him neither wife nor child.
END OF LOTTKA.
THE LOST SON.
THE LOST SON.
About the middle of the seventeenth century there lived in the town of
Berne a worthy matron named Helena Amthor, the widow of a very rich and
respected burgher and town councillor, who after twelve years of happy
married life, left her with two children while she was still in the
prime of her age and beauty. Nevertheless she declined all the
advantageous and honourable offers of second marriage made to her,
declaring on every such occasion that she had now only one thing to do
on earth, and that was to bring up her children to be good and worthy
members of society. But as it often happens that too great anxiety
defeats itself and achieves the very reverse of what it aimed at, so it
proved here. The eldest child, a boy, who was eleven when his father
died--an intelligent but very self-willed fellow--rather required the
discipline of a man's strong hand than the tender but too indulgent
care of a mother who positively idolised him as the image of the
husband she had prematurely lost, and who never knew how to oppose any
of his impetuous wishes. The consequence was that the older the young
Andreas grew, the worse he behaved, and rewarded his mother's unwise
love by almost breaking her heart. When she first came to some
recognition of his faults it was already too late. The remonstrances
and admonitions of his uncles were all in vain, and even the grave
censure and heavy fines he incurred, from the town authorities, owing
to his irregular conduct, tamed his rude nature as little as did his
mother's tears. At length Frau Helena made up her mind to the greatest
pang she had known since her husband's death--to a parting with her
son, whom a cousin in Lausanne, a wealthy merchant, now offered to take
into his house, in the hope that change of scene and regular work might
exercise a healthy influence on the reckless youth. Andreas, who was
twenty years old at the time, consented willingly enough to leave the
old-fashioned "bear-garden," as he called his native town, for a
strange place, where he promised himself, spite of his cousin's
_surveillance_, a far freer and more amusing life. Neither did
he show the least tender feeling on parting from his mother and his
little sister of twelve, Lisabethli, but kept his large stock of
travelling-money far more carefully in his belt than his mother's
counsels in his heart. No wonder, therefore, before six months were
over, news came from Lausanne that Andreas had secretly quitted the
town, leaving behind him disgraceful debts at gambling-houses and
taverns, and making off with money entrusted to him for the business,
in lieu of which a heavy bill drawn on his mother was found in a corner
of his desk.
That bill and all other debts Helena Amthor paid without delay; she
said not a word about them to anybody, and always gave one answer to
whatever enquiries might be made about her son, that he was well and
upon his travels, and that he wrote to her from time to time. Nor was
this statement untrue, for as soon as his money ran short--which often
happened--he turned to his mother, who at that time never refused him.
But as to what there was in his or her letters no mortal creature ever
knew. She left off speaking of him, never introduced his name, so that
at length people grew shy of touching on the sorrow of her life, and
Andreas was virtually dead as far as the whole town of Berne was
concerned. He himself seemed quite content to be so, nor ever expressed
any wish to see his home again. When he came of age and had to settle
matters with his guardian, he curtly sent the latter word what day and
hour he was to meet him at the "Vine-tree," in Strasburg, there to make
over the fortune inherited from his father. But his guardian, a man
already in years, neither could nor would travel so far on his ward's
account. Therefore Frau Helena resolved upon undertaking the sorrowful
journey herself, probably with a last unspoken hope that this meeting
might have some softening effect upon his estranged affections. When,
however, she returned after a ten days' absence, the traces of
confirmed sadness on her fine face were more marked than before, and
from that time forth no one could say that they ever saw her laugh.